Till a gay conscious pride, unknown as yet, Touch'd a vain heart, and taught it to forget: And what still more his stagg'ring virtue tried, His mother, tut'ress of that virtue, died. A neigb'ring matron, not unknown to fame, (Historians give her Teraminta's name,) The parent of the needy and distress'd, [blest: With large demesnes and well saved treasure (For, like th' Egyptian prince, she hoarded store To feed at periodic dearths the poor :) This matron, whiten'd with good works and age, Approach'd the sabbath of her pilgrimage; Her spirit to himself th' Almighty drew;— Breath'd on th' alembic, and exhaled the dew. In souls prepared, the passage is a breath From time t'eternity, from life to death. But first, to make the poor her future care, She left the good Eulogius for her heir. Who but Eulogius now exults for joy! New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ. Pride push'd forth buds at every branching shoot, Sought other objects than the tatter'd poor; A part to gaming confessors was lent, stray; A famous Greek rhetorician in the fourth century, whose orations are still extant. And, wand'ring to the hermit's distant cell, At night a dream confirm'd the hermit more; His master's presence, nay, his name denied. There walk'd Eusebius at the dawn of light, There walk'd at noon, and there he walk'd at night. In vain. At length, by Providence's care, He found the door unclosed, nor servants near. He enter'd, and through several rooms of state Pass'd gently; in the last Eulogius sat. Old man, good morrow, the gay courtier cried; God give you grace, my son, the sire replied: And then, in terms as moving and as strong, As clear as ever fell from angel's tongue, Besought, reproved, exhorted, and condemn'd: Eulogius knew him, and, though known, contemn'd. The hermit then assumed a bolder tone; His rage was kindled, and his patience gone. Without respect to titles or to place, I call thee (adds he) miscreant to thy face. My prayers drew down heaven's bounty on thy head, -* * * And in an evil hour my wishes sped. So pray'd the hermit, and with reason pray'd.— Some plants the sunshine ask, and some the shade. At night the nure-trees spread, but check their bloom At morn, and lose their verdure and perfume. Meanwhile Eulogius, unabash'd and gay, Pursued his courtly track without dismay : Remorse was hoodwink'd, conscience charm'd away; Reason the felon of herself was made, The advent'rous pilot in a single year On less important days, he pass'd his time T' increase this load, some sycophant report The Demon having tempted Eulogius to engage in rebel- Now see Eulogius (who had all betray'd Forsaken, helpless, recognised by none, Proscribed Eulogius left the unprosp'rous town: For succour at a thousand doors he knock'd; Each heart was harden'd, and each door was lock'd. A pilgrim's staff he bore, of humble thorn; Fame through Thebaïs his arrival spread, That he had lost the world and found himself. EDWARD LOVIBOND. [Born, Died, 1775.] EDWARD LOVIBOND was a gentleman of fortune, who lived at Hampton, in Middlesex, where he chiefly amused himself with the occupations of rural economy. According to the information of Mr. Chalmers, he was a director of the East India Company. He assisted Moore in his periodical paper called the "World," to which he contributed "The Tears of Old May-Day," and four other papers. THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY. WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754. LED by the jocund train of vernal hours And vernal airs, up rose the gentle May; Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flow'rs That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray. Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright, And am'rous zephyrs flutter'd on her breast: With every shifting gleam of morning light, The colours shifted of her rainbow vest. Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form, A golden key and golden wand she bore; This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, And that unlocks the summer's copious store. Onward in conscious majesty she came, The grateful honours of mankind to taste: To gather fairest wreaths of future fame, And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past. Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite Her virgin vot'ries, and at early dawn, Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, [lawn. Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine: Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, A purer off'ring at her rustic shrine. No more the Maypole's verdant height around To valour's games th' ambitious youth advance; No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance. Sudden in pensive sadness droop'd her head, Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born, The first, the fairest daughter of the skies. Then, when at heaven's prolific mandate sprung The radiant beam of new-created day, Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung, Hail'd the glad dawn, and angels call'd me May. Space in her empty regions heard the sound, For ever then I led the constant year; And infant beauty brighten in my smiles. No Winter frown'd. In sweet embrace allied, Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, While sounding billows from the mountains roll'd, With bitter waves polluting all my streams, My nectar'd streams, that flow'd on sands of gold. Then vanish'd many a sea-girt isle and grove, Their forests floating on the wat❜ry plain : Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, My Atalantis sunk beneath the main. No longer bloom'd primeval Eden's bow'rs, Nor guardian dragons watch'd th' Hesperian steep: With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flow'rs, No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deign'd, And waked her slumb'ring atoms into birth. And ev'ry echo taught my raptured name, And ev'ry virgin breath'd her am'rous vows, And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, Shower'd by the Muses, crown'd by lofty brows. But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride, My Albion's favour'd realms, I rose adored; And pour'd my wealth, to other climes denied; From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored. Ah me! for now a younger rival claims And warbles Philomel a softer strain? Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise? Does ev'ning fan her with serener gales? Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs, When silence listens at the midnight hour. Nor wonder, man, that nature's bashful face, And op'ning charms her rude embraces fear: Is she not sprung from April's wayward race, The sickly daughter of th' unripen'd year? With show'rs and sunshine in her fickle eyes, With hollow smiles proclaiming treach❜rous peace, With blushes, harb'ring, in their thin disguise, The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase? Is this the fair invested with my spoil By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command? Ungen'rous Europe! let me fly thy soil, And waft my treasures to a grateful land; Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore, My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; Again to Afric's sultry sands restore Embow'ring shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane. Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, There hush to silence elemental strife; Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost, And swell her barren womb with heat and life. Then Britain-Here she ceased. Indignant grief, And parting pangs, her falt'ring tongue sup press'd: Vail'd in an amber cloud she sought relief, And tears and silent anguish told the rest. SONG TO *** And bask secure in other smiles? Ah no!-my dying lips shall close, Unalter'd love, as faith, professing; Nor praising him who life bestows, Forget who makes that gift a blessing. My last address to Heaven is due ; The last but one is all-to you. |